


We'll Do The Things That Lovers Do

by theatretechlesbian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Post-Apocalypse, Slice of Life, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, jon-binary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theatretechlesbian/pseuds/theatretechlesbian
Summary: a soft, after the apocalypse, domestic scene.Or, the one where everything is normal after the apocalypse and jon and martin are happy and safe and everyone is ok
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	We'll Do The Things That Lovers Do

**Author's Note:**

> i got a little bit soft and sappy writing this one, also present tense was weird to write lol
> 
> Title from 'Toothpaste Kisses' by the Maccabees

Jon's already loosening their tie as they come through the door. Martin had picked it out that morning, dark green with the little silver octopi. A Christmas present from a couple years back, thrown across the room at them. Martin had, like every morning, looked beautiful, curled up in the quilt with pillows squished in that gap between the headboard and wall.

The jacket was next to go, slightly damp from the rain that morning, and where it had been stuffed into a corner instead of laid out to dry. Jon hangs it up on the lopsided coathooks that threaten to fall every time they're used. They've both been meaning to fix the hooks, but life has a way of making you avoid things like that. 

It'd been somewhat surreal getting normal jobs after it all, the apocalypse. Martin had started work at a bakery (and only half of his CV was doctored!), and Jon had ended up going into teaching. It wasn't their favourite thing in the world, but too many of the other jobs in the sector were a bit too close to the Institute in requirements, and they really wanted to avoid that. So they'd taken a course, and started teaching English. They were teaching poetry this term, which in itself was awful. Jon could just about handle the classics; the blatant bigotry in every single book assigned by the exam boards was difficult to teach, but nothing that they weren't used to studying. But when it came to poetry, Jon's patience tended to wear a bit...thin. Falling in love with a poet had certainly helped matters, but nothing was going to change their view entirely.

Martin isn't home yet - he usually isn't at this time, especially on a Friday. His boss is like that, letting Martin lock up most nights. It doesn't take long to boil the kettle, mugs washed, dried, and placed on the counter, teabags and sugarcubes at the ready. The little sugar pot is chipped, has been since he brought it home from whatever charity shop it'd ended up in. It's yellow and glazed, old porcelain with a bumblebee on top. The colour is bright, and reminds Jon of him. They remember him bringing it home. He'd been late home, not quite long enough for Jon to phone, but long enough to worry a little. In Martin had walked, smile bright on his face as he asked Jon to close their eyes and open their hands. It honestly wouldn't have mattered what Martin had bought; if it was going to make him happy like that, it was staying. And so it had gone next to the tins of tea and coffee, at home in its oddity.

The plant on the windowsill drops a brown leaf into the sink. Plant is a strong word, it's more of a piece of tumbleweed that's half-submerged in dirt and masquerading as a houseplant. It was the third of its kind, the third that had been bought with good intention and then somehow plummeted to the bottom of the priority list. Jon considered tipping it out of the pot and into the bin, but it seemed to look at them, and it looked so sad.  
They decided to wait until Martin got home.

Not that they were waiting very long. The quiet thud of his car door from the street below, followed by the muted jingle of keys in an unlocking door. He's wearing that jumper, the one that's far too big for Jon, no matter how many times they steal it, but perfect on Martin. He's tired, and suddenly all Jon can see is the tension in his shoulders, the weariness in his movements. A hug and a cup of tea were in order.

Jon boils the kettle again as they take Martin's coat and bag from his hands, bowing like some theatrical valet. He lets out a small laugh, and starts towards the mugs, only for Jon to block his way. They directed Martin to the sofa, insisting that he stay. He flops just for a moment, before turning around and leaning on the back of the sofa, watching Jon as they add the milk. He does that sometimes. Jon will be doing any such normal task, the dishes, or clearing out the fridge, and they'll turn around to find Martin smiling quietly to himself, looking content. 

Jon rattles the biscuit tin, ensuring they've got Martin's attention before chucking it across the room with a _Think Fast!_   
He catches it, of course, and Jon brings over the tea, setting it down on the stained coffee table, beside the mismatched coasters and abandoned books. The mugs are ignored for a bit, in favour of holding Martin. The way he slowly melts into Jon's arms, breathing steadily, is not something they will forget. 

After everything they've been through, Jon can't help but feel grateful that they still have Martin. Too many nights had been spent spiralling, their mind supplying _what-ifs_ that, more often than not, sent Jon hurtling into a panic attack at 2 am.

The two of them order take away that night. It's not their usual night, but the cashier smiles at Jon when they collect it, having left Martin swaddled in a blanket refusing to move. Despite the rain that morning, the evening sun was bright and orange. The wet tarmac of the street is well lit, and Jon has to shield their eyes as they walk back to the flat.

The dining table in their apartment is useless at this time of year. (Martin's flat hadn't survived what destruction was left after the apocalypse and Jon's flat hardly had any furniture anyway since they'd lived with Georgie, so when the two of them had moved, they'd required entirely new furnishings. So, cheap and impossible-to-move-without-falling-apart table it was.)

There is a single place where one can sit and not have the sun in their eyes. They've been meaning to move the table, or replace the broken blinds, or something, but all too often Jon sees Martin squinting, trying not to look into the sun, or manoeuvring so he's in Jon's shadow, and he looks adorable. So, the blinds don't change.

  
When Jon gets back, Martin doesn't look like he's moved, still wrapped up in the throw, but there are plates and condiments on the coffee table. On goes the TV, some mild documentary about the Amazon Rainforest, and that is how they stay until Martin begins to fall asleep, head on Jon's shoulder.  
Jon is loathe to wake him up, but unfortunately, they have essays to mark, and a Jon-shaped pillow probably isn't ideal for spine health. So they nudge him slightly and Martin's eyes scrunch up, the way they do when Jon persuades him to get out of bed in the morning only to be met with _But the bed is warm, and cosy, and...warm._ It's his way to trying to pretend he's still asleep, trying to convince a crowd of skeptics that he is simply Not Awake.

With great reluctance from one and quiet humour from the other, Martin and Jon make their way to bed. Jon picks up some of the essays on the way, knowing that their reading aloud would most likely be appreciated.  
It didn't take long for Martin to be under the covers, his weight on the mattress a familiar and welcome sensation for Jon. Martin was curling into Jon's side as they sat up, pen out and marking papers in the dim light. They passed a couple of hours this way, reading the essays of sometimes questionable quality in a quiet voice. They hoped it was comforting, although they couldn't quite keep the sarcasm completely away, making comments here and there. (When in a more conscious state, Martin would unabashedly say that those are his favourite moments.)

However many poetry analysis papers later, Jon's head is feeling heavy, and their handwriting is starting to lose its legibility, so they carefully place the essays on the floor. The bedside lamp goes off, and Jon falls asleep next to their husband.


End file.
